


Endgame

by dance_across



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, John Cares Ever So Much, M/M, POV John Watson, POV Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Not Understanding About Sex, Virginity, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-11
Updated: 2014-02-11
Packaged: 2018-01-11 23:56:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1179466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dance_across/pseuds/dance_across
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim has information that he's willing to sell to Sherlock, but only for a very specific price. A price that John doesn't like at all. Season 3 spoilers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Endgame

_Want to know how I did it? Meet me on the roof of Bart's and I'll tell you. x_

_Very funny. SH_

_I'll up the ante, then. I have information on your bf's wife. You know you want to see it. xx_

_What's your price? SH_

_Come to Bart's and find out. I won't even try to kill you this time!! lol xxx_

_Not the roof. SH_

_Molly Hooper's lab. One hour. Bring me a corsage. xoxo_

 

-

Sherlock supposes that he should feel violated. Not by the hand moving up and down his cock, which really ought not to be there—but by presence of the camera half-hidden behind Molly’s microscope.

He doesn’t, though. Feel violated, that is.

Because he knew there would be a camera here, and Jim obviously knew that he would figure it out, and the result is implicit consent. He assumes Jim plans to keep the video and use it for blackmail. Boring, tedious, dull. Especially since blackmail only works if the victim cares about the blackmail material seeing the light of day.

Sherlock does not care at all.

Let the entire world watch him as he is now, leaning back against the counter, trousers pulled to his knees, allowing Jim to stroke him with his fingers, his fist, occasionally his tongue. Let them all watch. Will they see the look of boredom on his face as he waits for Jim to finish his game? Will they notice how long it took him to get an erection?

Or will they just enlarge the picture, trying to discern the length and girth of Sherlock’s penis? Not giving any thought to the context around it? That, he decides, is more likely. This is _human people_ , after all. Human people with internet connections. All they care about is cat videos and porn.

-

“Done yet?” calls Mary from the kitchen.

“Almost!” John replies. It isn’t true. He’s been staring at this post for a solid twenty minutes, unsure how to finish it. There’s a reason he’s been putting off writing up the Magnusson case for the blog—a reason that’s currently inventing some sort of genius new pasta dish, just two rooms away. How much to tell the public, how much to leave out? Will anyone see that there are gaping, Mary-shaped holes in the story? Or will they be too distracted by Sherlock Holmes shooting someone and more or less getting away with it?

He types a sentence. A voice in his head (which sounds suspiciously like Sherlock) tells him it’s rubbish. He deletes it.

And he goes back to staring.

-

“Are you wearing pants?”

That’s the first thing Jim says when Sherlock figures out the new code Jim’s set on the laboratory door.

“Irrelevant,” says Sherlock, letting the door swing shut behind him.

“Incorrectamundo,” says Jim. “You forgot my flower, which makes your pants very relevant indeed. Call it Plan B.”

Sherlock blinks placidly, waiting.

“You did ask what my price was,” says Jim, eyes glittering and alien-large beneath his too-broad forehead. He clasps his hands behind his back, bouncing a little on his toes. “Want to hear the answer? Come on, come on, I know you do.”

Sherlock gives Jim a quick once-over, and arrives at a conclusion that he finds more sad than disturbing. “The answer is obvious.”

“Ooh, is it now.” Jim moves toward Sherlock, just two small steps. “And are you looking forward to it?”

Sherlock twists his mouth into a wry almost-smile. “I can’t particularly say that I am.” 

“The Deflowering of Sherlock Holmes!” proclaims Jim, throwing his arms wide. “That’ll be a good title for a blog post, won’t it?”

The almost-smile becomes a smile. “You have information on Mary.”

Jim bounces again, this time rocking back on his heels as well. “I do. Oh my, but I do. First, though, I’d like to collect some information about _you.”_

_-_

_It turned out, there were no vaults at Appledore after all! It was all in his mind. All that information. I almost wonder if that’s why Sherlock reacted like he did. Not because there was no tangible proof of anything at all, but because he’d been fooled._

John stops typing and stares at the screen again. No wonder Sherlock keeps telling him what a crap writer he is. How do people even read this blog of his? How do they stand it?

He lets his head fall until his forehead is touching the keyboard, and he thinks the word _headdesk_. He actually considers typing the word _headdesk_. Then he decides he’s about twenty years too old for that.

He really wants a beer.

-

At first, Sherlock is determined not to show the slightest bit of pleasure at the sensations that Jim’s fingers are eliciting in him. At first. Then it occurs to him that the sooner he gets this over with, the sooner he can get what he came for (ha! a pun! Mycroft would be so ashamed!), leave, and have a shower.

So he decides to allow the physical to trump the mental, at least for now, and he closes his eyes and focuses on Jim’s hand.

It’s a talented hand, he admits in the privacy of his own head. Not that he’s got any other hands to compare it to, aside from his own. But it seems to know what it’s doing.

There’s a rush, a heat, a tightening. _Almost over_ , he thinks.

“Almost over,” says Jim. “Open your eyes, Sherlock my love. I want to _seeee_ you.”

For some reason, the small act of opening his eyes puts him over the edge. Or maybe it’s the manic look on Jim’s face. Either way, he comes. And as he’s coming, he wonders why the opening of his eyes was the thing that did it. He makes a mental note to look it up later: the correlation between visual stimuli and physical arousal.

-

One minute, it’s the half-empty document in which he’s writing this truly horrible blog post; the next, the screen’s gone black. John mutters a curse under his breath, then fiddles with the wires a little. Has his laptop come unplugged and run out of battery again? No, it looks like it’s still plugged in.

He’s about to get up and ask Mary what she knows about computer viruses… when he sees movement on the screen. A photo. Of a room. A light turns on, and he realizes it’s a video, not a photo. Then a face appears in the middle of the screen, big-eyed and grinning, and he actually jumps in his chair.

“Jesus,” he mutters.

“Hello, John Watson,” says a voice that’s far, far too familiar. “Are you ready to be amazed?”

-

Jim makes a show of closing his eyes as he licks his fingers clean. “Mm-mm-mm. Sherlock. You taste like springtime and sunshine and righteousness.”

Sherlock just pulls up his trousers. Zips up. “It’s just semen.”

“Oh, don’t be a bore,” says Jim, smiling. “I’m trying to lend some poetry to a messy situation. You could at least play along, seeing as you’re the one who made the mess.”

“You have information about Mary Watson.”

“Mary Morstan Watson,” says Jim, drawing out the vowels as he gets languorously to his feet. “That one tasted like autumn, fairy tales, and treachery.”

The implication is clear, but the playful gleam in Jim’s eye tells Sherlock that he’s bluffing. Sherlock doesn’t much care either way, though he imagines that John would care, if he knew. If it were true, anyway. Which it isn’t. Probably.

“Information,” says Sherlock again.

“Oh!” says Jim, snapping his fingers. “Yes, my good man. So sorry. Of course. Come closer. I’ll whisper it to you.”

Another quick once-over confirms that Jim’s armed only with a single pistol, but his body language doesn’t betray any intent to use it. Sherlock steps closer.

“Something you should know about Mary,” whispers Jim, his voice big and round in Sherlock’s ear. “She’s _killed_ people. Shhh! Don’t tell.”

He draws away from Sherlock, eyes wide, finger to his lips, and Sherlock sighs to himself. He’d been ninety-five percent sure this venture wouldn’t yield anything useful.

“Never gamble on a five percent chance,” he says, and stalks out of the lab.

What a waste.

-

Down come the trousers. Sherlock, his face slightly grainy on John’s laptop screen, leans back against the counter. Moriarty crouches in front of him like a goblin. Reaches for—

John blinks fast, hoping every time his eyes open again that he won’t actually be seeing this anymore.

Jim Moriarty’s hand, wrapping carefully around Sherlock’s cock. Rubbing and pulling and… twisting? John winces. Why the fuck isn’t Sherlock _doing_ anything?

Why isn’t _John_ doing anything?

He can’t, though. He can’t actually move. The only thing he can do is sit here, blinking, jaw slack, thinking he must, he _must_ , have somehow stumbled upon a way to travel into alternate universes without noticing.

Because there is no way, in this universe, that Sherlock Holmes would ever let Moriarty touch him like that. Or anyone else, as far as John knows. Or—

_Fuck, that’s his tongue._

The quality of the picture is good enough, and the focus close enough, that John can see the exact moment Sherlock starts to get hard. Which is to say, the exact moment the tip of Jim’s tongue makes contact with Sherlock’s cock.

Which is also, of course, the exact same moment that Mary comes in to fetch him for dinner.

-

Sherlock hails a cab. Traffic won’t be heavy at this time of night, which means he doesn’t have much time to think. Which means he has to think fast.

Which isn’t a problem.

The problem is that he doesn’t know what he ought to be thinking _about_.

-

At first, Mary laughs. “Gay porn? I thought you were blogging! Here, let me see.”

“Don’t,” says John weakly.

Then Mary stops laughing. “Oh. That’s.” Silence. Then, “Why’s he…?”

John’s face goes hot. He cannot cannot _cannot_ look at Mary. “You shouldn’t be watching this.”

“Why are _you_ watching this?” she asks. Ever so gently.

“I…” John flails a hand helplessly at the screen. “He hacked me. Somehow, he hacked my laptop, or our internet, or…”

“Who, Sherlock? Why?”

“Not him.”

Then Jim turns his head just enough to catch the light, tongue still out as he grins devilishly up at Sherlock. His face is clear on the screen. Far too clear.

“Oh, fuck,” says Mary.

_Yes_ , thinks John.

-

Sherlock doesn’t like not knowing what the endgame is. But Jim knows that—so maybe that’s the point. Maybe there _isn’t_ an endgame, and Jim’s counting on Sherlock thinking there _is_ one, knowing that he won’t be able to spot it and the not-knowing will drive him mad.

But then, there was the camera. Why the camera? Blackmail, insurance, or something else entirely?

-

“ _Open your eyes, Sherlock my love,_ ” comes Jim’s voice, ever so faintly.

Sherlock does, and John watches, and Mary watches too, as Sherlock’s face scrunches into a wholly undignified expression that’s almost a grimace and almost a Renaissance painting. John feels, strangely, like he might cry.

Mary’s hand tightens on his shoulder.

Seeing Sherlock naked is nothing new. He’s a man, and he’s got all the bits men generally have—but more than that, he has very little concept of modesty, and his clothing-related whims are as changeable as the weather. Outside the flat, it’s always the same coat and scarf and well-made suit; inside the flat John used to find him stark naked just as often as not. It stopped bothering him a long time ago.

Seeing Sherlock naked and aroused and _coming_ , however, is something entirely different, in every possible way.

Sherlock zips up his trousers, and Jim stands up, and John breathes out. On the screen, they speak to each other. The sound is low enough that John can’t hear what they’re saying.

He does see, however, that Sherlock looks furious when he finally leaves the lab.

Jim watches him leave, then creeps toward the camera again. Fills the whole screen with his hateful, horrible face… and closes his eyes almost dreamily… and licks his lips.

“Enjoy the show, Johnny?” he says, low and guttural, and then he pops his eyes open, and he winks. The screen goes dark.

Then the video begins to loop.

John slams the laptop closed, and immediately wonders why he didn’t do that ten minutes ago.

He stands up and forces himself to look at Mary, whose face is full of so much compassion and sympathy and understanding— _of what?_ wonders John—that he wants to punch something.

“I have to go to Baker Street,” he says.

She nods. “I’ll keep a plate warm for you.”

-

“A trade,” says Sherlock as he throws open the door to the flat. “Something without value for something without value. His intention, or my overanalysis?”

He throws his coat aside, rips off his scarf, runs his hands through his hair. His skin is buzzing—and John is watching him, silently, from his usual chair.

“What value?” asks John. His voice is quieter than usual, and there’s a slight tremor in it. Sherlock peers at him, but there’s obviously no clarification forthcoming, and Sherlock doesn’t have the patience to wait for it.

“Information,” he says. “I’ve just met with one James Moriarty—I’m sure you remember _him_ —and the meeting yielded nothing at all. I should have known. I should have known. Waste of bloody time, it was.”

Sherlock stalks toward the kitchen, thinking that maybe he’ll eat something, but decides against it when he’s halfway there. He turns back to John, who’s still watching him with that _look_ on his face. The kind of look where Sherlock’s done something wrong, and John’s spotted it, and Sherlock hasn’t, so it must be something _people_ -related.

“What?” he asks.

-

Of all the things John could possibly say, the thing that comes out first is: “My computer was hacked.” It’s true, of course, but he immediately feels like an idiot for saying it.

Sherlock blinks, clearly confused. “You’ve come to me to fix your computer?”

“No,” says John. God, he shouldn’t be so embarrassed about this. He’s here to make sure Sherlock’s all right, not to do… whatever he’s doing. Beating around the bush. So to speak.

“Out with it,” says Sherlock. “I’ve got to think, and I can’t do it with you giving me that look.”

“I’m not giving you a look,” says John.

“You are,” says Sherlock. “There’s a look, and you’re wearing it, and I want to know why.”

“Where were you tonight?” asks John. His voice breaks on the last word—and Sherlock blinks. Blinks again. His eyes narrow, and John can see him connecting _hacked computer_ with _tonight_.

“Ah, the camera,” says Sherlock, far too calm. “So that’s what it was for.”

For reasons he can’t begin to fathom, rage begins to boil in John’s veins. “You knew there was a camera?”

Sherlock snorts. “Of course I knew. It wasn’t even hidden. That’s good, though. That’s good. Did you spot any clues?”

“Clues?” says John faintly.

“Clues, yes, clues,” says Sherlock. “His endgame. I don’t know what it is. And I was, unfortunately, busy enough that I couldn’t give the situation my full attention. A good thing you were watching, though. Clues. Tell me.”

John can’t speak.

Clues.

Seriously.

-

After a few seconds of John sitting there, gaping like a codfish, Sherlock grows annoyed. “Don’t tell me you didn’t notice anything at all,” he says, sitting heavily in the chair opposite John’s.

John blinks, and his jaw works, and at last he says, “I did notice something… very… um, significant.”

“Do tell,” says Sherlock, leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

John’s eyes narrow. “You, with your trousers down, letting bloody _Jim Moriarty_ suck you off. That’s what I noticed, Sherlock. In case you were wondering.”

Once again, John’s powers of observation have fallen short. Sherlock sighs. “John. If I have to explain to you the difference between sucking a person off and giving them a handjob, then I’m sorry to inform you that your marriage is very likely doomed to failure.”

That’s when John punches him in the face.

-

One second, John has forgotten how to move at all—and the next, he’s practically on top of Sherlock, fist flying toward his cheek. It connects. There’s pain, and with the pain comes clarity, and the clarity allows John to realize three important things:

One: Sherlock doesn’t feel particularly bad about what John just witnessed.

Two: He probably shouldn’t have hit Sherlock.

Three: But fuck, it felt good.

Standing up, John shakes out his hand. He feels human again, a man capable of _doing_ things, not just a numb robot in front of a computer screen. More importantly, his tongue has remembered how to form sentences.

“Why’d you do it?” he asks.

“Payment,” replies Sherlock, rubbing at his cheek with mild interest, probably working out exactly how the bruise will look tomorrow. “Moriarty had information that I wanted, and that was the price he exacted from me.”

“Price,” repeats John, feeling vaguely ill. “Was… was it worth it? The information?”

“No,” says Sherlock. “At least, not until I figure out how to contextualize the information he _didn’t_ give me”

John knows he should probably ask what that means, but he doesn’t actually care. “Still. You paid him with sex. _You_.”

“So?” says Sherlock. “At least I didn’t have to fake my death this time.”

-

_And it wasn’t sex_ , Sherlock adds, not out loud. Sex is, according to reliable sources, an expression of intimacy and personal connection and mutual enjoyment and other such nonsensical things. This was a transaction, nothing more. A particularly messy transaction, but not nearly as messy as the business on the roof, and that was certainly something.

John, though, doesn’t seem to grasp the difference. The poor man looks on the verge of tears. Sherlock thinks about offering him a brandy, but isn’t entirely sure that would help the situation.

“Something without value,” says John, after a moment. “He gave you useless information, and you gave him… is that what you meant? You? The thing without value?”

Sherlock huffs, amazed as always at John’s capacity for imprecise assumptions. “You’ve met my ego, John. Surely you don’t actually expect me to answer that question without employing sarcasm.”

“No, no, I don’t mean you, Sherlock, the famous detective with the big brain,” says John. “I mean… I mean _you_. Sherlock. The human man who… you know, plays the violin when he’s sad, and gave the absolute greatest and absolute worst best man speech the world has ever known, and who doesn’t… who’s never…”

“Never?” prompts Sherlock.

John looks at him deeply, soulfully, like a puppy determined to please its master. “Had you ever?” he asks quietly. “Done that before?”

Sherlock snorts. Stupid question.

“I worry about you, is all,” says John. His face is actually going red. Oh, this is painful.

“ _You_ ,” says Sherlock derisively, “worry about _me_.”

John nods.

Sherlock sighs. “Fine. I’ll bite. Why?”

-

Why indeed. There are a million thoughts moving through John’s head—thoughts about consent and about love and about _not having sex with someone who’s tried to kill you_ and about… about… something else. Something John can’t put a name to.

Something about the way he felt as he watched the video, unable to look away, unable to make Mary leave. Something about shame and lust and maybe also betrayal and—

“Because,” says John firmly, before his thoughts can stray too far, “you should do those things with someone you love. Not with… well. Someone you don’t.”

Sherlock raises a single delicate eyebrow. “Are you saying you’ve loved every single woman with whom you’ve been intimate?”

“Well, I, no, but,” John stammers. Then collects his thoughts and narrows his eyes. “Wait, are you comparing the women I date to _him_?”

At that, Sherlock actually laughs. “I just don’t see why you’re so adamant! What’s done is done. It wasn’t a big deal.”

“It was a big deal to _me_!” Only once he’s said it does John realize just how true it is. “You were just standing there, letting him, and I had to _watch_ , and—”

“You didn’t have to watch,” says Sherlock, smiling almost gently. Almost. “Nobody forced you. Unless there are things about Mary that I don’t know.”

Retorts bubble up in John’s throat, one after another, piling on top of each other until he doesn’t know what to do first. Defend Mary? Defend himself? Insist that Sherlock take this seriously?

John does none of those things. Instead, he leans down, pulls Sherlock’s face up to his, and kisses him.

-

Sherlock’s first thought is: _Ah-ha, so that’s what this was all about._

His second thought is: _Really, that’s what this was all about?_

His third thought is: _Hello! Tongue._

It’s pleasant, this kissing business. Sherlock’s always thought so—but somehow it’s even more pleasant than usual when it’s John. Far more pleasant than kissing other men, far more pleasant than kissing women, and _far_ more pleasant than Jim Moriarty getting him off.

Sherlock kisses John back. Also with tongue. John makes a funny noise, deep in his throat, which Sherlock files away for further examination at a later time.

John’s hands are in Sherlock’s hair. Sherlock can taste John’s teeth. John’s pulse is racing. Sherlock feels something tightening, just below his navel, and he remembers the wedding, the wedding, the wedding, and how he _considered_ —how he was perhaps _interested_ —but it was too late, of course. It was too late then, and it’s too late now.

Isn’t it?

The kiss ends in its own time, and John straightens up, clearing his throat, licking his lips, rubbing his hands together. “So,” he says. “That. That’s what I wanted to. It’s only that you… I mean I know I keep saying I’m not gay. It’s just. Um.”

Sherlock squints at John’s flushed, open, oddly lovely face. At his expressive mouth and his nose, which curves just so, and his eyes, which are always two degrees more perceptive than Sherlock expects them to be.

“But you’re not entirely straight, either,” says Sherlock.

John shifts his weight, ever so slightly. “I suppose not,” he says.

“John,” says Sherlock.

“Mm.”

“With someone you love. That’s what you said.”

John hesitates. Rubs his hands together faster, faster. Nods again.

Sherlock asks a question he’s never asked anyone before: “So you love me, then?”

-

John looks at Sherlock, all sharp angles and keen eyes and electricity.

-

Sherlock looks at John, all comfort and humanity and warmth.

-

“Yes,” says John, so very quietly. “I… suppose I do.”

This time, it’s Sherlock who kisses John. John kisses him back, and for a few blissful moments, he forgets the video completely.

-

Sherlock thinks about the video as he kisses John. All those theories about Jim’s endgame. All those ways in which he was wrong.

_Fuck your endgame_ , he thinks, irrationally wishing that Jim could hear him. _I win._


End file.
